


The Mystery of the Beni Hillal Dogs

by princegrantaire



Category: Lawrence of Arabia (1962), Seven Pillars of Wisdom - T. E. Lawrence
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, Superstition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25618852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princegrantaire/pseuds/princegrantaire
Summary: It starts during the long winter in Azrak, freezing in the towers of Nuri Shaalan’s half-inhospitable fortress. It’s not Lawrence who notices it first, the strange wailing rising in the dark from the sands outside, though he strains to hear it once pointed out and holds his breath as he does.(Lawrence and Ali investigate a ghostly encounter.)
Relationships: Ali ibn el Kharish & T. E. Lawrence
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	The Mystery of the Beni Hillal Dogs

**Author's Note:**

> HEY so this one definitely requires a bit of explaining. i'm steadily approaching the end of seven pillars and i've reached the part right before deraa when they spend a couple of weeks camped out in a fortress in azrak and lawrence's whole thing about the ghostly dogs made me absolutely scream because it's ostensibly a Hound Of Baskervilles Situation, aka the single greatest situation a human being could be in. [you can find the full paragraphs here!](https://ufonaut.tumblr.com/post/625080413803659264/hello-no-one-ever-told-me-lawrence-ali-co)
> 
> this is somewhat intended as movie-verse (on account of lawrence not being tiny and they deserve some fun too!) and bordering on crackfic but hey, what are u gonna do!
> 
> ENJOY

> "In the rain and the dark few men would venture either over the labyrinth of lava or through the marsh -- the two approaches to our fortress; and, further, we had ghostly guardians. The first evening we were sitting with the Serahin, Hassan Shah had made the rounds, and the coffee was being pounded by the hearth, when there rose a strange, long wailing round the towers aside."
> 
> \- _Seven Pillars of Wisdom_ , T. E. Lawrence

* * *

It starts during the long winter in Azrak, freezing in the towers of Nuri Shaalan’s half-inhospitable fortress. It’s not Lawrence who notices it first, the strange wailing rising in the dark from the sands outside, though he strains to hear it once pointed out and holds his breath as he does.

“What is it?” he asks in the ensuing silence, hardly reassured by the fire throwing distorted shadows across the stone walls. Reality seems, all at once, extraordinarily far away.

Hesitant whispers amongst guests and servants alike inform him of the dogs of the Beni Hillal, the mythical builders of the fort currently serving as unwilling residence, and their endless quest for their dead masters. Lawrence leaps up at the words. The sudden movement upsets both the attempts at pouring coffee that have resumed in his vicinity and the delicate constitution the cries have thrust upon the vast majority of tonight’s group. Ali, looking splendid even huddled in his cloak, allows him the dignity of a singular curious look.

“It’s just like Sherlock Holmes!” Lawrence declares with an especially grand gesture, arms spread wide. He must look odd in the dim light, the whole off-white length of his robes, the sleeves billowing.

He’s paid little attention by an oft-captive audience and in the moment Lawrence takes to think that one out, thrumming with excitement from the agonised howls still resounding in his mind, the room steadily empties itself until it’s just Ali left. An evening cut short by superstition. That’s a first. Some part of Lawrence notes a hint of surprise that it’s taken this long. He glances at his remaining friend with a look of his own.

“This is my room, Aurens,” Ali offers by way of explanation.

It is the naked truth.

As Lawrence’s fascination refuses to abate, he’s well in the middle stages of perfecting a convincing argument pertaining to an urgent investigation when the wailing picks up again. Ali’s hand inches towards the nearest rifle, his huge eyes gone even wider. He’s enchanting between the faint moonlight and the leaping flames. The matters of the right time and place occur to Lawrence.

“We need to investigate,” he decides, grabbing his own rifle, and then adds, nearly giddy, “we’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson!”

Kindly, Lawrence neglects to mention Ali would likely play the latter. It strikes him as impolite.

He’s forgotten all about the cold, the stifling, grey weather of the past couple of days and the bitter taste of perceived failure sticking to the back of his throat. Finding himself hit with the immensity of a purpose, Lawrence cannot spare any room for reluctance. He grasps Ali’s arm and pulls him along, down rickety stairs and out into the courtyard and the night air. It’s a shock of wind that makes them stop in their tracks. Underneath the choked and miserable sob, there is nothing but the haunting quiet of the desert.

“I wish I had a deerstalker,” Lawrence mumbles, dreadfully earnest. _Deerstalker_ is, evidently, said in English. He’s unsure whether the cap exists in this part of the world and further unsure of linguistic equivalents in the late hour.

“I have not yet learned that word,” Ali admits. He’s not quite meeting Lawrence’s eyes, busy loading his rifle with shaking fingers.

Lawrence translates the terms separately.

The dogs of the Beni Hillal are undeterred and undetected, echoing from all directions -- a shuddering undercurrent to a mostly uneventful explanation. In fact, Ali only appears to grow more confused by the minute.

“What do deer have to do with dogs?” Ali frowns deeply and Lawrence would do just about anything to ease the sudden frustration strewn across a face much too beautiful to concern itself with earthly affairs, even construct his own approximation of the deerstalker in question should the necessity arise. “Are we not stalking dogs?”

“No, we _are_ , it’s just-- the hat Sherlock Holmes wears?”

The drawn-out wail persists until it doesn’t.

“Aurens, I don’t know who that is.”

He gasps, entirely without meaning to. “The world’s greatest detective?” Lawrence offers, belatedly aware of the profound silence that’s now enveloped them, far more unnerving than the flickering legend that had managed to frighten off their companions.

“Well, can he help us?” Ali asks, gazing intently into the night. He’s listening for something, he must be.

“Yes! I mean, _no_ , he’s a character from a story but this is exactly like _The Hound of the Baskervilles_ \--”

Lawrence trails off. He’s clutching at Ali’s arm, unthinking and engulfed in a sudden belief of superstition. Everything’s gone quiet, there seems little sense in a continued investigation, his own excitement dying a slow death somewhere in his gut. Having come to a sort of unspoken agreement of mutual terror, Lawrence deems it wise to retreat back to the safety of the fire up in the tower.

“I really ought to show you those books,” he remarks, shaking his head.

**Author's Note:**

> find me at @ufonaut on tumblr


End file.
